


Just a Little Heat

by menel



Series: These Are the Days We'll Never Forget (When the Dawn is On You) [1]
Category: Strike Back
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Conspiracy, Episode Related, Hostage Situations, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-09-12
Packaged: 2018-08-11 14:07:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7895566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/menel/pseuds/menel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Damien Scott told himself that he was done with the military and their bullshit, even if he knew that it was the only life for which he was really trained. He'd been aimlessly drifting from place to place until one day Sgt. Michael Stonebridge came looking for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My only attempt at Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics. In the _Strike Back_ world. I don't know what I was thinking. Lots of dialogue has been lifted or liberally paraphrased from the show. Set during episode 1 and 2 of _Project Dawn_.

What Damien remembered most about that fight was his smell cutting through the sweat, the stench, and the heavy humid air of that hot Malaysian night. Even in the midst of a round, after taking a fist in the face and exaggeratedly falling to the floor, Damien had uncharacteristically taken his eyes off of his opponent (always dangerous, even against a buffoon like Igor) to track that clean woodsy scent with a trace of pine. He locked gazes with him instantly, the alpha that didn’t belong in that crowd, standing by the railing on the second floor balcony. Damien felt an unexpected thrill of anticipation crawl up his spine as he picked himself up to face Igor again. He’d never had such a visceral reaction to an alpha before, certainly not to one he’d never met, and definitely when he hadn’t been in heat. (It had been many, many years since he’d experienced a heat. And for good reason.) 

The bell chimed, signaling the end of the round and Damien walked over to his makeshift corner, sitting down on a wooden stool as the dripping sweat was wiped off his body with a rough towel. He looked to his left. The alpha was now leaning casually on his forearms against the iron railing still watching him – evidently only had eyes for him – and the tingling sensation on Damien’s skin grew. Not willing to show how much the other man had affected him, Damien smoothly allowed his gaze to travel from the alpha across to the other end of the balcony where that asshole Ong was holding court with Treena standing by his side. 

“What the fuck, huh?” he yelled in Ong’s direction, gesturing at this face. “I said not the nose!” 

Ong, the bastard, merely smirked in reply.

Adrenaline from the fight made Damien grab the water bottle out of his ‘trainer’s’ grasp and take a long drink. The bell chimed again and he stood up, dousing himself with the remainder of the water before tossing the bottle aside. He met Igor in the center of the ring. They circled each other for several seconds before Igor made the first move – a head butt that broke Damien’s nose. _That_ was the last straw.

Still aware, albeit disturbed, by the alpha’s keen interest and his own physical response to said interest, Damien threw all caution to the wind and with a few swift, precise blows, the buffoon Igor was sprawled on the concrete floor. Damien could hear Ong’s angry shouts as the tide of the fight quickly shifted, but he no longer cared. He figured he’d overstayed his welcome in Kuala Lumpur anyway and Ong was a total asshole. When he looked up at the spot where the alpha had been standing, he was disappointed to see that the alpha was gone. That disappointment was short-lived, however, since Ong was out of his seat and screaming, gesturing at his men to go after Damien. 

It was time to leave.

* * * * *

Damien took the quickest route to the whorehouse where he lived in a small apartment on the second floor, free of charge since he was such a loyal patron. He bounded up the steps two at a time and yanked his door open. Immediately he froze, his hand still gripping the doorknob. There was that scent again.

If he had suspected before that the mysterious alpha was military (he certainly looked the part), now Damien was certain. The guy was either a PMC or – and Damien thought this more likely – one of Christy Bryant’s dogs, ordered to haul him in. Except… 

Except his gut told him that this stranger wasn’t one of Christy Bryant’s. He fit the profile, but didn’t look the type. Too clean, too… 

Damien hated speculating. He was about action and knowing that the alpha was waiting for him, he strode inside. 

“Not a bad fight back there,” a smooth voice greeted him. “Once you started to fight, that is.”

British. Damien hadn’t been expecting that. Definitely wasn’t sent by Christy Bryant then. This knowledge both simultaneously reassured and further disturbed him. If this guy wasn’t with the C.I.A. or a PMC… 

The alpha was in his kitchen making himself at home. He’d just finished steeping a mug of tea when Damien arrived and was now holding the mug as he left the kitchen and entered the main room.

“Really?” Damien said nonchalantly, stripping his hoodie as he approached the other man. He’d come here to change and grab a few things before making his getaway. A stranger wasn’t going to stop him from doing that, even if said stranger was acting on Damien’s hormones in a way that hadn’t happened before. “So, who you with?” he asked with fake politeness. “S.A.S. or S.B.S?” 

“Section 20,” the alpha answered, his military persona coming to the fore. “High risk priority targets.”

“Oh, wow,” Damien continued, unable to rein in his sarcasm. He felt the alpha’s gaze sweeping over him, assessing him with trained eyes. He did his best to ignore the scrutiny, as he changed out of his sweaty clothes and put on a comfortable pair of cargo pants. “If you’re such hot shit, what’re you doing here?” he asked snidely. 

“John Porter.” 

The name momentarily froze Damien for a second time that night. As attractive as this alpha was, he was also full of unpleasant surprises.

“What about him?” Damien finally managed to get out, uncharacteristically unable to meet the other man’s eyes. He hoped he passed it off as the typical distraction of someone packing his shit in a hurry. Observers may have thought that he was showing the proper submission, but Damien Scott didn’t have a submissive bone in his body. 

“He was undercover in Pakistan looking for a man named Latif,” the alpha replied. “Latif found Porter instead.” 

“What’s that got to do with me?” Damien pushed, impressed at his own aloofness. He was working hard to control his breathing and his heart rate. The alpha would sense any changes in him, especially with their proximity. John fucking Porter. He knew he’d have to pay for that lapse eventually, and it looked like that day had come. 

“You and Porter were the only two soldiers to see Latif,” the alpha went on. “Back in 2002.” 

“You must be really desperate, buddy.”

“There’s a Herc waiting to take us back to London,” the alpha continued, unfazed. He picked up a pair of fuchsia flip-flops and tossed them at Damien. “Since you’re packing your bags anyway,” he added. 

At that moment, Treena rushed inside. “Ong’s looking for you,” she told Damien breathlessly. 

“Yeah, I know,” Damien replied.

“He’s very angry.” 

“I know,” Damien said again, flashing Treena a lopsided grin before fixing a hardened gaze on the alpha. “How much?” 

“How much?” the alpha repeated, taking a step toward him. 

Damien held his ground. “Yeah, if you want my help finding Porter,” he bargained. “I want cash. And a lot of it.”

The alpha was standing in front of him now, forcing Damien to take shallow breaths. The other man’s scent was strong, almost overpowering and Damien willed his traitorous body to behave. He couldn’t understand why his body was reacting this way, not with all the hormonal supplements and suppressants that he regularly took. He’d mastered his body’s urges and responses to a degree that was unprecedented for an omega. It was what had allowed him to pass as a beta for the majority of his life. After the nightmare of those early heats, he’d vowed that he would never let his biology determine his fate. It was fucked up that being born with a certain set of parts decided your function and role in society. Omegas, depending upon the cultural norms of the country, were for the most part an underclass. If they weren’t, then they were prized and objectified by the wealthy elite. Either option pissed Damien off. There had to be more to life than being bred by someone else. And as if he’d know what to do with a kid! It was laughable. 

“Thought you and Porter were mates.”

The alpha’s voice had softened, snapping Damien out of his thoughts. He could read the barest hint of disappointment in the other man’s eyes and he ruthlessly tapped down on the desire to please the other man, to submit to his wishes. What the hell was wrong with him? Who the hell was this guy? 

“Yeah, we were,” Damien agreed, allowing a fraction of his complicated history with Porter to bleed through. “But now, as you can see,” he continued, the brashness returning to his voice. “I’m retired.” 

“Dishonorably discharged,” the alpha corrected. His disdain was unmistakable. “On the eve of Operation Iraqi Freedom. Not even the PMCs will touch you.”

_Fuck_ , Damien thought. _The Brit was a straight shooter. Loyal and dedicated. Believed in the cause._

_Much like Porter_ , another voice supplied. Damien mentally told that voice to go take a hike. 

“Yeah, that’s right,” Damien said, easily brushing off the fact that he was considered a military pariah. “So if you don’t want to pay me, then you can go fuck yourself.” 

“You are not going to leave me,” Treena interrupted, indignantly. She’d been scurrying around the room gathering Damien’s clothes in her arms as the two men had conversed.

“Just for a couple of days,” Damien automatically assured her, knowing the alpha would see right through his very thin lie. “Thanks, honey,” he added, as Treena crammed some more of his clothes into his bag. There was a part of him that was regretful that the alpha was seeing him like this, judging him based on the persona that he’d crafted for himself: the profiteering mercenary who used and discarded people once they became an inconvenience. He was more than the sum of his parts, but why it mattered that the alpha should know this was beyond him. Hell, he didn’t even know the alpha’s _name_. 

“You’ll get paid,” the alpha told him, his voice hard as Damien navigated around Treena. 

“Yeah?” he questioned. 

“More than you’re worth,” the alpha added, taking a drink of his tea. 

“What’s your name?” 

“Stonebridge.”

“Okay, Stone _henge_ ,” Damien emphasized. “Time to go.” 

“Scott, please,” Treena begged, as Damien picked up his bag. “How will I find you?” 

“I’ll friend you on Facebook.” 

It was a lame ass response and Damien could practically feel the alpha – Stonebridge, he corrected himself – roll his eyes in disgust. The other man began walking toward the main entrance. 

“Dude!” Damien called after him. “Not that way. Trust me.”

Together, they jogged along the second floor balcony just as a black pickup drove up to the whorehouse. Ong and two of his henchmen exited the vehicle. A third man remained behind in case Damien managed to give Ong the slip. 

“Hold this, buddy,” Damien said, unthinkingly shoving his bag at Stonebridge. The other man accepted the bag without complaint, a mixture of curiosity and irritation on his face. “Stand there,” Damien instructed, pushing Stonebridge against the wall so that he’d have more room to make his leap. He landed in the back of the pickup. The thug on sentry duty turned around, and even though he was considerably larger than Damien, Damien made quick work of him. Unfortunately, Damien didn’t notice Ong’s other enforcer standing underneath the balcony until it was too late.

A moment later, Damien was lying on his back in the street beside the pickup. It meant that he had a perfect view when Stonebridge made his leap over the balcony, landing directly on top of the second thug. Two quick moves, one defensive and the other offensive, had the second guy joining his compatriot on the ground. 

“Can we go now?” Stonebridge said a little impatiently, as he offered his hand to pull Damien up. 

Damien grinned, accepting the proffered hand. “Nice hit, buddy,” he congratulated. “I’m driving,” he added. 

They made their getaway in Ong’s black pickup, the sound of gunfire and angry shouts receding behind them.

* * * * *

Second 20’s headquarters were impressive and Damien said as much when he was introduced to the commanding officer, Colonel Eleanor Grant, an alpha female whose presence dominated the room. Her second in command was Major Oliver Sinclair, clearly a beta, and a non-combatant by the looks of him. Damien tried not to let his dislike show. Officers who sat behind desks with little to no field experience were the worst kind of officers in his book. Grant, on the other hand, had obviously seen action. She looked tough as nails, and her demeanor said that she wouldn’t take shit from anybody. Neither would the last officer Damien was introduced to, Captain Kate Marshall. Damien’s bold look at her when he’d shaken her hand might have caused offense in another situation, but Marshall let his leer slide. She seemed more amused than anything else by his boldness, a silent, _Silly beta. I’m out of your league_ , kind of expression on her face. Damien, however, didn’t miss the look Marshall had exchanged with Stonebridge, some kind of understanding passing between the two alphas. He took note of it. Maybe there was something there, even as his stomach recoiled unpleasantly at the thought.

It was soon clear that Stonebridge had lied about Damien getting paid for his help. But it was also a testament to how badly Section 20 _needed_ his help, and how much faith Grant had in Stonebridge that she didn’t hesitate to back her soldier up. The negotiations were all for nothing a moment later when another soldier interrupted their meeting. It was bleak news. Damien entered 20’s main operations floor just in time to witness Porter being executed via a live broadcast. So much for his help.

Damien assumed the gig was done – at least he’d gotten a free trip out of Kuala Lumpur – when he went back to his hotel room that night after sharing drinks in Porter’s honor at Section 20’s regular bar. Although he’d been invited, Damien still felt like an outsider, so he’d sat at the very end of the bar while the toast to Porter had been made. He’d discreetly kept an eye on Stonebridge, who was standing in the center of the group beside Grant. Stonebridge was the one handing out a steady stream of shots. He couldn’t help but wonder what sort of history Stonebridge had shared with Porter, if it was anywhere near as complicated as the one he’d had with Porter. A longer history, Damien had eventually surmised, but probably not as complicated. After all, Porter had been an alpha too.

Surprisingly, it was Kate Marshall who had approached Damien in his little corner of the bar, bringing with her a shot as a peace offering of sorts. If Damien was disappointed that Stonebridge hadn’t brought over the liquor, he kept that to himself. Stonebridge was a professional through and through, but Damien had picked up the discreet vibe that the other soldier didn’t like him very much. This was probably due to Damien’s military file (which Stonebridge had definitely read) and Damien’s own first impression (which had hardly been endearing). Not that anyone would describe Damien as ‘endearing’ on his best day.

Still, his brief conversation with Kate about Porter got the wheels in Damien’s head turning. Kate was right. Porter would never go down without a fight, no matter how hopeless his situation became. Even before he’d been executed, Porter had nothing but fire and vitriol for his captors. His defiance in the face of impending death practically bled through the screen. The execution had happened so quickly. One moment Porter was yelling curses at his captors and then in the next a gunshot had cracked through the air. Watching the execution again in private, on a flash drive that Damien had managed to finagle out of Sgt. Richmond, was difficult. Now that Damien knew what to expect, he could focus on the other details, on the unfinished business that lay between Porter and himself. He owed John, and he had assumed that there would be time to pay off that debt. But time had run out. 

Replaying the execution for a third time, a crazy idea occurred to Damien. Only it wasn’t so crazy. He pulled out the complimentary notepad of the hotel room and began to scribble down John’s final words, rewinding and hitting the play button over and over again to make sure he got everything. 

Maybe he could still pay back his debt after all.

* * * * *

Porter’s death hit Michael hard. He never should have let Porter go after Latif on his own. Not that he’d actually had a choice in the matter. The solo op had been Grant’s call. But the decision had burned under Michael’s skin and he’d vehemently protested it until Kate had had to pull him away, lest he risk being thrown in a cell for insubordination. But Porter was his partner. His best mate. They always had each other’s backs. Allowing Porter to go off on his own had ended in Porter’s capture and death, and that was on Michael. He’d failed his partner.

Michael channeled all his anger and frustration into the punching bag in front of him. He imagined that the bag was Latif (even though he couldn’t put a face to the name) and then proceeded to beat Latif to death several times over. After he had exhausted himself, the fire and the anger still burned.

* * * * *

Michael didn’t believe what Scott had to say…until he did.

There was something about Scott that rubbed Michael the wrong way, even as Michael found himself inexplicably intrigued by the other man. It had begun in Kuala Lumpur. There was something about the other man’s scent. Scott presented as a beta – that’s what his file had identified him as – but nothing about Scott screamed beta. Not the way he’d refused to throw the fight for that petty gangster Ong, nor the careless way he’d treated his part-time girlfriend. (Perhaps ‘girlfriend’ was a generous assessment.) If it hadn’t been for his scent, Michael would’ve thought that Scott was an alpha. Most soldiers were, especially the elite soldiers. No matter how he’d been dismissed from the service, Scott had once been Delta Force, which meant that he was – or had been – elite. It wasn’t that betas couldn’t be assertive. They could. It’s just that Scott’s behavior and everything else in his file went well beyond assertiveness. Damien Scott was…rebellious. And that wasn’t part of a beta’s makeup at all. With a character (some might say a character _flaw_ ) like that, his discharge had seemed inevitable. 

But it was to Scott’s scent that Michael kept circling back to when they’d been in close proximity in the rat hole that Scott had called home while the other man had hastily packed. Beneath the rush of beta pheromones, there was something akin to a sweetness that was incongruous with Scott’s entire persona that had caught Michael’s attention. It was a scent that Michael couldn’t place, and yet it seemed oddly familiar. 

When Michael returned to his flat after running through London’s miserable morning rain, the guilt over failing Porter still burning under his skin, he unexpectedly heard two voices laughing in the kitchen. He recognized both of them. By the time he was standing in the kitchen doorway, he was greeted by the sight of his wife and Damien Scott laughing over mugs of coffee at the kitchen table. 

Kerry turned to face him, a warm smile on her face. Clearly, Scott had worked his charms on her. “Hey love,” she said. “Have a nice run?”

Michael’s gaze flicked from his wife to the unwelcome guest at the table. Kerry immediately picked up on his displeasure and her smile wavered. 

Before Michael could even answer her question, Scott greeted him as well. “Hey buddy. Nice tights.” 

The quip made the fire under Michael’s skin burn a little brighter and Kerry’s smile vanished completely. 

“Can I have a word?” Michael asked, his voice tight. 

“Sure,” Scott replied neutrally, standing up.

As he passed by Kerry, she suddenly put out a hand to stop him. “Damien,” she said, aware of the tension that had arisen in the room. She glanced at Michael briefly before continuing, “Why don’t you stay for breakfast? I can make a full English. Mike’s favorites.” It was her attempt to diffuse the situation before things got out of hand. 

Scott glanced at Michael to gauge the other man’s reaction. Michael’s smile was polite for Kerry’s benefit, but once she looked away, the warning glare he shot Scott could not be misinterpreted. 

Scott wisely did not push Michael’s limits. He flashed Kerry an apologetic smile. “No thanks,” he said. “Maybe next time.”

He stepped out of the kitchen and walked down the hallway with Michael close behind. When they neared the front door, Scott turned around and was immediately slammed against the wall, Michael’s forearm pressing tightly against Scott’s windpipe making it difficult to breathe. 

“I should break your fucking neck,” Michael said, his voice lethal. Scott’s scent spiked, but it wasn’t out of fear. 

“Easy, buddy,” the other man said, voice calm and placating but the glint in his eyes told a different story.

Scott’s scent washed over Michael and he detected that faint sweetness again that momentarily threw him. The sweetness was undercut by another smell that was even more powerful. Arousal. Was Scott fucking turned _on_?

“This is my home,” Michael practically growled. “ _My home_.” The smell of lust intensified and Michael could actually see the desire in other man’s eyes. What was turning Scott on? Kerry? Michael? The threat of violence? Was this a side effect of the fight or flight? The latter was actually a common enough response. 

“I know,” Scott breathed in reply, his voice strained and deeper than usual. “It’s a great one too. Kerry’s a great girl.”

Michael was irritated beyond belief that Scott had the temerity to refer to Kerry specifically, and the arm across Scott’s throat squeezed tighter, even as he jammed his leg in between the other man’s legs, purposefully using his knee to put extra pressure on Scott’s balls. There was always pain to be had with the pleasure. Scott sucked in a breath, spreading his legs slightly in response to Michael’s actions, trying to ease the pressure there. There was no mistaking the hardness that was rubbing against Michael’s leg.

“What are you doing here, Scott?” Michael asked, leaning in and inhaling deeply the other man’s scent. It felt as if any moment now his own body might betray him; that his anger could just as easily tip over into desire. Fight or fuck. Maybe that was a more apt biological response than fight or flight. This close, Michael could actually see the personal war Scott was raging between his hormones and rationality. The other man’s instinct told him to submit, to bare his throat to the alpha that was dominating him – for punishment or pleasure. It didn’t matter at this point. The appropriate response was submission.

But Scott didn’t bare his neck. He withstood Michael’s assault, eventually shutting his eyes in an effort to tap down on his body’s responses. Another alpha would’ve been angered at the affront, but Michael was quietly impressed. Damien Scott was the strangest beta he had ever encountered, in the military or in civilian life. 

“What are you doing here?” he asked again, this time releasing Scott and giving the other man some space. “And how’d you find me?” 

Scott finally opened his eyes. He was still leaning against the wall, regulating his breathing. “You’re not so hard to find,” he eventually said. 

Michael narrowed his eyes.

Scott looked as though he understood that wasn’t the most suitable reply. He quickly pulled something out of his pocket and held it up for Michael to see. It was a flash drive. “I’ve got something to show you,” he said a little eagerly. “Where’s your laptop?” 

Michael looked at the flash drive a little warily. He didn't trust Scott but his professionalism won through. Any lead was a valuable lead, even if it came from someone as untrustworthy as a disgraced former Delta operative.

* * * * *

“It’s a simple numerical code,” Michael explained to his superiors in the glass-walled office belonging to Colonel Grant. He kept one eye on the adjacent conference room where Scott was sitting at the head of the table, absently swiveling one of the chairs. For a grown man, he could behave like such a _child_.

Michael flicked his attention back to the computer screen and continued his report. When the first message was decoded as ‘LOTUSH,’ potentially referring to the Royal Lotus Hotel in Delhi, both Marshall and Sinclair voiced their skepticism. 

“You can’t be serious,” Kate scoffed, soon followed by Sinclair’s, “Shit, Mike. You’re clutching at straws. That guy would do anything to get paid.”

Michael would’ve agreed if the message stopped there, but he knew that the second decoded phrase was far more convincing. “Bear with me,” he told Sinclair. “There was a second message in Porter’s first outburst.” He ran the message through Scott and Porter’s algorithm and the word ‘PDAWN’ flashed across the computer screen. 

“P. DAWN?” Sinclair repeated in disbelief. “Project Dawn?”

“Right,” Michael confirmed. “Now LOTUS H. could’ve been a lucky guess, but there’s no possible way Scott could have known about Project Dawn. Or its significance to us.” He paused and scanned the faces of his superiors. “Porter died trying to tell us what he found out about Latif.” 

Grant, who had remained silent, was staring intently at her computer screen where the letters ‘PDAWN’ blinked in blue. 

“All right,” she said with finality. “Everyone go home. Take a shower. Kiss your partner and feed the dog. Major, let’s prepare the crib. I want everyone assembled by 1900. We’re relocating to Delhi.” 

Sinclair and Marshall filed out of the room quickly, but as Michael was about to leave, Grant stopped him. 

“Michael, we’ll need to take him.” Grant glanced in Scott’s direction. She sounded apologetic. “I know,” she added, when Michael grimaced. “But he was Delta Force once. And if Latif is in Delhi, he’ll be the one to recognize him.”

Michael nodded. “Copy that,” he said. 

It looked he’d been assigned to baby-sitting duty for a while longer.

* * * * *

For the second time in twenty-four hours, Michael found himself sitting beside Scott on a plane. There were other places to sit, but Scott appeared to be glued to his side. From Scott’s end, it might have been out of familiarity, although Michael doubted that. Despite his limited interaction with the other man, he could safely say that Scott was not the clingy sort. It was more likely that Scott stuck to him to piss him off, to try and get a rise out of him. Their personalities appeared to be polar opposites. Michael tolerated Scott’s presence because for him it was a matter of responsibility. He’d brought Scott in; he’d have to see to it that the other man didn’t get into too much trouble.

The flight to Delhi gave Michael too much time to think, and what his analytical mind couldn’t let go of was the fact that Porter had used an obsolete code that only one other man – a disgraced soldier _outside_ of Section 20 – could possibly decipher to pass a message onto his team. _Why_ would he do that? Why couldn’t he contact 20 directly? They had their own codes and tells that both he and Porter had used in the past. The only reason that Michael could come up with was that Porter had wanted to bring Scott into the fold, but that made even less sense. Why Damien Scott? What was so special about the other man? Porter would have known that 20 would trace his and Scott’s connection to Latif in 2002, and that 20 would eventually use Scott to attempt to locate Latif. But was that all? Was the connection really as tenuous as that?

“Oi,” Michael said, jabbing Scott with his elbow. “When was the last time you had contact with Porter?” He didn’t miss how Scott tensed at Porter’s name. 

“We weren’t pen pals, buddy,” Scott replied brusquely. 

“That doesn’t answer the question.” 

Scott turned to face him, irritation plainly written all over his face. “Iraq,” he stated. 

“Before you were discharged?” 

Anger flared in Scott’s eyes, but just as quickly disappeared. “Yes,” he said, dully. 

“And you’ve had zero contact with him since then?” Michael pushed. 

“Not in the mood for Twenty Questions, Stone _brain_ ,” Scott retorted.

“Why you?” Michael murmured, but he’d already turned away. The question was directed at himself. 

Scott must’ve heard him because he leaned over, breaching Michael’s personal space. 

“You know why,” he said, just as quietly. 

The thing is, Michael did. He just wasn’t willing to admit it to himself.


	2. Chapter 2

Delhi was as advertised, hot and humid. The mobile crib was set up on the second floor of an abandoned apartment complex that doubled as a textiles factory. The ground team was composed of Capt. Kate Marshall, Sgt. Michael Stonebridge and Damien Scott. Scott and Stonebridge arrived at The Royal Lotus Hotel together, while Kate took a separate cab from the crib.

“Thanks very much,” Michael told the lobby receptionist, as she handed him their room keys. Beside him, Scott was surveying the hotel layout. The other man had been listless since they’d landed in Delhi, but the taxi ride to the hotel had been especially bad. The air-conditioner in the cab they’d shared hadn’t been working, and Michael had thought that the heat had exacerbated Scott’s temper. 

“Thought you’d be used to this after KL,” Michael had observed quietly. 

Scott’s gaze had immediately shot to him. “Used to what?” he’d snapped. 

“The heat.”

Michael couldn’t explain it, but Scott had looked ready to rip his head off. Instead, Scott had settled for rolling down his window as far as it would go, and sitting forward in his seat as though he were trying to get as much fresh air as possible. Michael had rolled his window down as well, and hid a grin as he’d watched the bustling city streets slowly go by. 

“Here, Mr. Langley,” he said now, handing Scott his key card.

“Thank you, Mr. _Byers_ ,” Scott said with exaggerated politeness. He immediately bent down to pick up his bag and began to walk away from the reception. 

The receptionist returned Michael’s credit card and wished him a good stay. He slipped his credit card into his passport, before calling out to Scott. “Oi!” 

Scott turned around in irritation. 

“Rooms are that way,” Michael said, pointing to his right. 

“Yeah, I know,” Scott replied, as though Michael were a two year old. He pointed in the opposite direction. “Bar is that way.”

Michael stopped and studied the other man. He knew that his own irritation must have been evident. “Life is just one long pussy parade for you, isn’t it?” he said at last. It was an uncharitable comment, but Scott had a way of pushing his buttons. 

Scott narrowed his eyes, his impatience slipping into something closer to anger. “I’m on the case, Mr. Byers,” he replied with venom. “The bar is the first place a good Muslim would go to blend in.” 

“It’s really great to have you on the team,” Michael replied, his own vitriol barely held in check. Scott flipped him the bird before he sauntered away. 

Michael watched the other man for a moment before Kate’s voice speaking through their com drew him back to the mission. 

“Michael, you in?” 

Michael took a deep breath, allowing her familiar light brogue to center him. “Yes, I’m in,” he replied. 

“What d’you see?”

“Six cameras in total,” he replied automatically. “Four in the lobby, one in each corner. Two at the entrance.” He paused. “I think I’ve found a way to tap into their feed.”

“Okay,” Kate said, the approval in her tone. “Well, I’ll be there in about five minutes.” Michael could hear another voice in the background, presumably the cab driver. Kate laughed lightly in response. “Better make it ten,” she revised.

* * * * *

Damien stalked towards the hotel bar, willing himself to relax. He needed a fucking massage to get rid of the tension that seemed to take permanent residence whenever Michael fucking Stonebridge was around. This mission was going to be intolerable if he didn’t get a better grip on things. Sitting next to Stonebridge on the plane had been a mistake, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself either. He had no explanation for the magnetic pull the other man exerted on him, but he suspected that it had something to do with his fucked up biology. What really pissed him off though, was that the attraction was obviously one sided. Stonebridge remained as cool as a cucumber, completely unaffected by Scott. If anything, the alpha barely tolerated his presence. The cab ride to the Royal Lotus Hotel had nearly done him in. The broken air-con meant that Stonebridge’s scent had been inescapable, intensified by the afternoon Delhi heat. Damien knew that Stonebridge hadn’t intentionally been doing anything, and that fact disturbed him most of all. If Michael could already set him on edge by simply being himself, what more if Michael purposefully chose to release his scent in order to subdue him? Damien had sworn to himself that he would never allow an alpha to have that much power over him, but Michael Stonebridge was testing the very boundary of his limits in the most casual of situations.

And what made Michael Stonebridge so fucking special anyway? Scott hadn’t – check that. Damien _absolutely_ had no interest in finding out. As he descended the steps to the bar of the Royal Lotus Hotel, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been simultaneously so pissed off and so horny. All because of one fucking alpha! It was the only explanation he could give for hitting on the first piece of attractive beta ass that headed his way.

“Excuse me,” he said, stopping the barmaid. “Can I get a Scotch on the rocks, please?” 

“A single or double?” the barmaid replied in a businesslike manner, flipping open her small notepad to take down his order. 

“That depends,” Damien said, slipping into the well-worn persona of a professional womanizer. “How soon you get off?” 

At that question, the barmaid finally looked up. She really had stunning eyes and luscious bow lips. “Are you hitting on me?” she said. Her tone was accusatory, but Damien could detect through her scent that she was pleased by the attention. 

“Is it working?” he asked, in order to make her feel like the ball was in her court. 

Her smile turned sultry, and she resumed writing his order. “I’ll make it a double,” she told him. 

“Yup,” Damien agreed, feeling some of the tension that Stonebridge had caused evaporating. Nothing like a good fuck to take his mind off the unattainable alpha.

However, Stonebridge was haunting him in other ways when he took a seat at the bar, near a woman in a black dress who was just settling her bill. She had a nearly empty glass of chardonnay in front of her. She was very attractive in a sophisticated, forbidding sort of way. The fact that she was also an alpha went without saying.

Damien’s opening line was an old ploy, one that the mysterious alpha was unimpressed by. She’d called him, “Another lost American,” and Damien had wanted to laugh. _If only you knew, lady_ , he’d thought ruefully. It was her accent that drew him in (British. Cultured. Why _were_ the British accents such a fucking turn on?) together with her aloof, non-responsive manner. There were shades of Michael Stonebridge in her, and finding a way to get her into bed would be much more rewarding than another easy conquest.

When she left the bar, Damien quickly polished off his drink and followed her into the elevator. It was downright stalker behavior, and her immediate response when the elevator doors sealed behind him, was to hold up her hand and show him her wedding ring. 

“It’s a really pretty ring,” Damien observed. 

“Why me?” she asked, in a mixture of perplexity and amusement.

 _Because you remind me of my new hot partner who can’t stand my guts, but I seem to have a raging hard on for_ , Damien mentally answered. “I like you,” is what he told her. 

“You don’t know me,” she replied evenly. (And Stonebridge might as well have been saying those words.)

“I can tell we’d hit if off,” Damien persisted. 

“Too bad,” the Brit said, and Damien temporarily lost her meaning. The elevator doors opened onto her floor. “We’ll never find out,” she added, before she stepped out. 

Damien watched as she went to her room, which was near the elevator. Out of habit, he took note of her room number – 312. _You never know_ , he told himself. 

A little later, just as Damien was about to take a much-needed shower, there was a knock on his hotel room door. 

“Room service,” said a female voice on the other side.

Damien hastily wrapped a white towel around his waist before answering the door. He hadn’t ordered any room service. 

The waitress from the bar was standing at the entrance. “You alone?” she asked, peering into the room behind him. 

“Uh, yeah,” Damien replied, opening the door wider so she could step inside. “I don’t remember telling you my room number,” he commented, as she strolled past him. 

“You wrote it on your bill,” she informed him. 

Damien shut and locked the door. “You off work already?” he asked, when he turned to face her. 

“I’m on a break,” she replied, and then began to strip.

* * * * *

Michael easily snuck into the surveillance hub of the hotel and attached the router that tapped into the hotel’s CCTV system. Once that was done and he’d confirmed that the crib was receiving the images, he settled down at the lobby to wait for Kate. He was just thanking the waiter for serving him his drink when a large group of men dressed in conspicuous tracksuits entered the hotel. Michael’s instincts instantly went on high alert. Everything about the situation was wrong.

“Kate?” he said. 

“Yeah, I’m here,” was Kate’s quick reply. “Just outside the entrance.” 

“I think we have trouble.” 

“Okay,” Kate said calmly. “Coming in now.” 

Michael watched as Kate went through the security checkpoint at the main entrance. “There,” he told her. “On your ten. Got it?” 

Kate discreetly looked to her left. “Got it,” she replied.

After that, everything happened so quickly. A hotel security officer stopped one of the men dressed in a tracksuit, requesting to check his bag. Michael could read the panic in the guy’s expression and a moment later, he’d pulled out a handgun and shot the security officer. When these first shots were fired, Michael’s reaction, just like Kate’s, was instinctive. Kate immediately fell to the ground as Michael, who had been moving towards the reception desk, began yelling, “Down! Down! Get down!” The guests standing nearest to him obeyed as the other track-suited men began pulling out automatic weapons and firing at the hotel staff, as well as anyone who was trying to escape.

Through the commotion, Michael made eye contact with Kate, who was still near the entrance. “Kate, go!” he yelled, when there was a break in the gunfire. He watched in relief as Kate dove through the hotel entrance, the glass shattering behind her as the gunmen resumed firing. Soon after, two men went into the surveillance room where Michael had tapped the CCTV feed. He knew that they were disabling the CCTV system. Soon, 20 would be in the dark, and then he would be their only contact in the hotel. 

“Michael, come in!” came Kate’s voice, urgently, through their com. “Michael, can you hear me?”

* * * * *

Damien was in mid-coitus, working his way to a satisfying orgasm, when he heard the unmistakable sound of gunshots in the hallway. He immediately tossed the barmaid who was riding him (he still didn’t know her name), off to the side of the bed.

“What?” she said in a confused yelp, followed by a familiar, accusing, “Scott!” 

Damien didn’t have time to attend to her. He was already out of bed, grabbing his towel as he ran to the door. “Be quiet!” he hissed behind him at her indignant expression. He opened the door and peeked outside just in time to see several men dressed in tracksuits and carrying automatic weapons herding a group of hostages away. One woman bolted, and she was instantly gunned down. Damien shut the door silently. That group would be checking his room next. When he walked back to the main area, he ordered his companion to get in the bathroom. 

“What?” Her lovely face was still confused, but Damien could see the fear begin to creep into her eyes. 

“Just get in the bathroom,” Damien repeated. “Be quiet.” 

She grabbed her clothes from the bed and disappeared.

Damien mentally cursed getting separated from Stonebridge with no means to contact the other man. He was the outsider in this op, and therefore had no direct contact with Stonebridge’s superiors at Section 20 either. If he felt the tiniest bit of concern that Stonebridge may have been in the thick of things when the hotel had been taken over by Latif’s men (there was no doubt that these were Latif’s men), then he ruthlessly quashed that notion. The alpha was a highly trained soldier. He knew how to handle himself. Still, that didn’t lessen Damien’s need to find the other man as quickly as possible. His military training taught him that there was strength in numbers, but even if that weren’t the case…

But first things first. He had to get rid of the assholes about to break down his door.

* * * * *

“Keep pressure on that,” Michael instructed the young woman in the lobby. She’d been standing at the reception when the shooting started, and she’d been hit by a stray bullet. Luckily, the bullet had gone straight through and the wound had a clean entrance and exit. As long as she tended to the bleeding, she would be all right.

“Thank you,” she told Michael, gratefully.

“Michael! Michael, can you hear me?” Kate’s voice was full of panic, but Michael preferred her yelling in his ear to the radio silence a few moments before. They’d temporarily lost contact amid all the gunfire. 

“I’m here.” 

“Thank Christ.” Kate’s relief was palpable. “Give me a sit rep.” 

“Sixteen armed men. Pakistani in origin. Late twenties, early thirties. All armed with AKs.” 

“How did they pass security?” 

“Bags were already in the lobby,” Michael explained. “They’re rounding up civilians,” he went on, his eyes continually roving the room. “Six or seven dead. Three or four wounded.”

“Stonebridge,” Grant suddenly cut in. “Is Scott with you?” 

“No,” Michael answered. “He’s not among the hostages.”

* * * * *

By the time the barmaid emerged from the bathroom fully dressed, Damien was rummaging through her purse. “You got a phone in here?” he asked a little absently.

“It’s downstairs,” the barmaid replied, her voice shaky. “We could call someone for help,” she said, shying away from the bodies on the floor. Damien recognized that she was in shock. 

“Yeah, we will,” Damien assured her, walking towards her. “What’s your name?” he asked, even though he’d already checked her ID in her wallet. It was a mundane question to temporarily get her mind off their situation. 

“Karen.” 

“Okay, Karen,” Damien repeated, gripping her by her arms to steady her. “I’m going to get you out of here, but right now, I need you to do exactly what I tell you.” 

Karen was barely keeping it together. Damien was trying to be sympathetic, but it was hard to do so when they were in so much shit. (And where was Stonebridge?!) Together, they moved through the abandoned hallways. 

“Hey,” Damien snapped. “Keep your hand on my back.” 

Karen jumped again. “Sorry,” she said.

“C’mon,” Damien urged, trying not to let his impatience show. Karen was a civilian, he reminded himself. She shouldn’t have been caught in this mess. But she also wasn’t dealing with the situation well. Damien knew that it wouldn’t take much for her to bolt on him, and he had to prevent that from happening. She’d certainly be killed if she was on her own.

That catalyst happened when the two of them rounded a corner only to come face-to-face with four of the terrorists. Scott opened fire, and the group was taken by surprise. He hit one of their men, while the other three scrambled for their weapons. One or two of them managed to get off a few rounds, and Damien took cover. But the three of them were backtracking, obviously unprepared to meet resistance. A burst of anger had Damien charging forwards, but the three terrorists escaped through the nearest stairwell. Damien knew that he couldn’t follow them down. Frustrated, he put an extra bullet in the man they’d left on the floor before going back for Karen, who was cowering behind the wall of the adjacent hallway. 

At that point, Damien knew that it would be useless to keep Karen with him. She’d become too great of a liability. The best thing now would be to hide her in one of the rooms while he searched for an exit (hopefully, finding Stonebridge along the way) and then come back for her. 

“Come in here,” Damien urged, when Karen refused to enter the hotel room. “Come in here,” he repeated.

Karen finally did so, gingerly, but then immediately freaked out at the sight of the bloody, dead body on the floor. Damien quickly grabbed her arm to stop her from running. “I need you to stay here,” he said, forcefully. 

“I’m not staying here, I’m not staying here,” Karen repeated, close to hysterical. 

“They’re not going to search the same room twice,” Damien persevered. “You understand?” 

That explanation finally seemed to get through to Karen, and she nodded. “Okay,” she agreed.

It was at that moment that the presumed dead man began to cough up blood and Karen lost it completely. Damien rushed to the man’s side, putting pressure on his wounds. “Hang on, buddy,” he said. “Hang on.” He looked at Karen. “Go to the bathroom and get some towels,” he instructed her. 

At first, Karen seemed paralyzed by the sight of the dying man, but then she began walking backwards, heading for the door. “I’ll get help,” she told Damien. “I’ll get help.” 

“No, no! You stay here!” Damien yelled, but it was too late. Karen had already run out of the room. “FUCK!” Damien screamed in frustration. “Hang on two seconds, buddy,” he said to the man that was coughing up blood.

Damien ran into the bathroom to get the towels himself, even though he knew that the man was a lost cause. He wouldn’t be able to save him, but he had to try anyway. The instinct to preserve life was one of the strongest that he possessed. Sure enough, less than a minute later the guy was dead.

“Fuck,” Damien muttered, the frustration of the situation starting to get to him. He didn’t have time to dwell on it however, since a sound from the closet caught his attention, putting him back on alert. When he opened the closet door, what did he find? The dead guy’s frightened little girl. 

Damien sighed, almost in resignation. His day had just gone from bad to colossally bad. “Just what I need,” he muttered to himself. 

When he crouched down and opened his arms to the little girl, he put on the warmest, most non-threatening smile he could manage. “It’s okay. It’s okay, honey,” he said gently. “You all right? You gotta come with me.” 

The girl shook her head, clutching her stuffed toy. 

“Come on,” Damien coaxed. “I’m not a bad guy. Come one. We’ll go for a ride.” 

Slowly, the girl inched towards him until Damien could pick her up. 

“Keep your head down,” he told her, as she settled comfortably in his arms. “Don’t you look up,” he added, before they exited the room.

* * * * *

“I saw what you did,” a bespectacled man told Michael.

“I’m sorry?” Michael replied, glancing sideways at him. 

“When the shooting started,” the man explained. “Those people you helped. Are you a policeman?” He sounded hopeful. 

“No, tourist,” Michael answered. He was listening politely, but he was also continually scanning the lobby, tracking the movements of the terrorists. “You?” 

“Tourist, yes,” the stranger agreed, although his tone suggested that he thought Michael was full of shit. 

“Kate, are you there?” Michael asked quietly, when the stranger’s attention had been drawn elsewhere. 

“Michael, I’m here,” Kate quickly answered. 

“Directly behind the entrance doors, they’ve rigged a necklace of IEDs,” Michael informed her. “The army so much as kick them, it’ll detonate.” 

“Well, can you defuse it?” Kate asked. 

Michael smiled to himself at her matter-of-fact tone. “Not right now,” he replied. 

“Hey, tourist,” the bespectacled man hissed at him. “Who are you speaking to?”

Michael was distracted from answering by the three terrorists who burst into the lobby from one of the stairwells. They were frazzled and speaking to their leader in loud animated voices. Michael couldn’t understand a word that was being said, but a young man sitting near him began translating their talk. 

“Some of the terrorists have been killed,” the young hostage told his friends, but loud enough so that he could be heard by the wider group of hostages around him. “He’s saying someone shot at them.”

Michael smiled inwardly. It was Scott. It had to be. “Good man,” he whispered to himself, feeling unreasonably proud. He may have disagreed with Scott’s moral compass and had doubts about Scott’s professionalism, but what he didn’t have any qualms about was that Scott knew how to fight. According to his file, he had once been one of the very best. Those kinds of skills didn’t disappear over night.

Michael sat on the lobby floor with the other hostages. The inaction was making him listless, and the radio silence from Kate and Grant meant that something serious was happening in Section 20. As the situation escalated, he knew that the Colonel would have to inform the Indian army of their presence. Perhaps they had already reached that point.

“Michael?” Kate’s voice broke through the radio silence. 

“I’m here.” 

“Colonel Grant wants you to be the eyes and ears of the Indian army.” 

Michael nodded to himself, even though Kate couldn’t see it. He’d been expecting that order. “Understood,” he replied. He paused. “I need to find Scott first,” he said. 

“And then what?” Kate said, sounding a little exasperated. “Two of you take out sixteen armed men?” 

Michael couldn’t share in her humor. “That’s the general idea,” he said, seriously.

He knew that Kate was about to object, but the sudden commotion in the lobby silenced her. She listened to, while Michael watched, the proceedings. The fair-skinned, bald terrorist who appeared to be the leader of the group, and the one who had fired the first shot that had killed the hotel security officer, was addressing the hostages. It was soon apparent that he was asking for a translator when the young hostage who had been speaking before stood up and walked towards him. The bald man smiled, pleased at the response. 

Michael’s concern quietly grew, concern that was justified when an elderly man was pulled from the crowd and placed on his knees. 

The young translator spoke. “He says, ‘Mahmood must come forward or this man will be killed.’”

Another terrorist began a countdown amidst the cries and panicked sobs of the hostages. Michael’s resolve hardened. “They’re going to execute a man,” he said into his radio. 

Grant’s response was immediate, her voice harsh. “Stonebridge,” she barked. “Do nothing to give yourself away!”

No sooner had she issued that order than the man on his knees was killed by a single gunshot to the head. The cries and sobs among the hostages grew. Michael could smell the fear spiking in the room. He gritted his teeth as another hostage was pulled from the crowd, the order for Mahmood to come forward repeated, and the countdown began again. 

“Stonebridge,” Grant repeated, her voice even more commanding. “Do NOT intervene!”

Michael discreetly stood up and moved to the back of the group of hostages. Earlier, he’d espied a fire alarm on the back wall. He wasn’t about to stand by and watch another innocent man be executed, Grant’s orders be damned. When the countdown reached ‘three,’ Michael triggered the fire alarm. In the ensuing chaos, he subdued the nearest terrorist to him, knocking the man out and grabbing his AK. He darted around the back of the lobby to a hallway. He’d slipped away cleanly, but without his realizing it, the bespectacled man who’d kept talking to him and a bellhop had followed him in the commotion. Michael gestured for them to get behind him not a moment too soon, since they’d been followed by two of the gunmen. Michael cut those men down as soon as they rounded the corner. 

“Please,” the bespectacled man begged. “Please, take us with you.” 

“I know a way out,” the bellhop chimed in, fearful but eager to be of help. “Through the laundry, in the basement.” 

Michael studied the two men and reached a quick decision. It wasn’t as if he could leave them behind. “Show me,” he told the bellhop. 

“Thank you,” the bespectacled man said effusively. “Thank you so much.”

* * * * *

Damien’s next destination was Room 312. It was a long shot, but he wanted to be sure. Besides, he figured that if the room had already been checked – and it was a good bet that all the rooms had been cleared by now – it was as safe a place as any to leave the little girl hiding in the closet while he resumed his search for an exit…and Stonebridge.

“Hello?” he called out, when the two of them entered 312. “It’s the guy from the bar. I’m here to help.” 

There was no response, which Damien had expected, but it was disappointing nonetheless. He’d genuinely liked the mysterious alpha, and hoped she was somehow all right. He took the little girl to the large closet in between the main room and the ensuite bathroom. Thankfully, there were no dead bodies in this room. 

“Stay here,” he instructed her. “I’ll be back for you.” 

The little girl obeyed. 

Just as he was shutting the door of the closet, a sound from another door nearby alerted him. 

“Get out!” Damien instantly yelled. “Get the fuck out!” 

To his relief, it was the woman from the bar. She’d hid in the linen closet to avoid being captured. She was badly shaken, but unharmed. 

“Can you get me out of here?” she pleaded with Damien. 

“Yeah, I’m working on that,” Damien said. “I need you to hide here.” He gestured to the closet. “I need to find a safe exit. Look after her,” he added, as the little girl emerged from her hiding place. “I’ll be back.”

* * * * *

Michael followed the bellhop and the bespectacled man through the bowels of the hotel. He kept them in front so he could cover their exit. Thus far, they’d been fortunate and hadn’t encountered any more roving gunmen. But when they entered the back stairwell, a noise from two or more floors above made Michael gesture at his companions to get down and stay quiet. The two men crouched near the foot of the stairs while Michael slowly made his way up. He could hear the other person on the stairwell moving down. He was ready to fire when the other person came into view.

“Scott!” he hissed.

“Fuck me!” Scott hissed back, picking up his pace as he jogged down the rest of stairs. Michael could see the relief plainly written all over the other man’s face. He was glad to see Scott as well, although he was much more reserved about showing it. 

“Friendlies,” Michael said, gesturing to the crouching men on his left.

“Where the fuck you been?” Scott asked as he passed by Michael, eventually leaning against the wall at the lower end of the staircase. 

“You know,” Michael replied, offhandedly, still scanning the area that Scott had vacated. “Saving lives, shooting bad guys.” 

Scott flashed him a far too mischievous grin given their situation. “How many numbnuts you take out?” he asked. 

“Two. You?” 

“Three.” 

“That’s good,” Michael said, giving Scott a genuine smile. “That leaves eleven.” Unless Michael was mistaken, Scott seemed to respond to the praise. It was something Michael could see in the glint of his eyes before the other man turned away to look at the friendlies. 

“You wanna shoot some more?” he asked. 

“If I have to,” Scott answered. 

“Stonebridge, report!” Colonel Grant’s voice was barking in Michael’s ear again. 

“I’ve just located Scott,” Michael replied, bracing himself for Grant’s displeasure. 

“I told you not to break cover,” came the expected reprimand. 

“I know,” Michael said in his best placating voice. “But I’ve just doubled our chances of diffusing that IED. First things first, I have two hostages that I need to get to safety.”

* * * * *

Damien half-listened to the conversation that Michael was carrying on with Section 20. He got the sense that Stonebridge had just disobeyed an order, but was holding his ground. Damien hated to admit it, but the alpha was growing on him. The attraction wasn’t purely physical, as Damien’s biology had a way of forcefully reminding him whenever he was in close proximity to the alpha. No, Damien could tell that Michael was one of the good guys, a soldier who would do the right thing even if it meant disobeying an order or two. In that respect, they were very much alike, even if Stonebridge wasn’t aware of that fact yet. He couldn’t deny either that finding Stonebridge had settled something in him, almost centered him in a way that he hadn’t felt since the hostage crisis had begun. Once again, he knew it had something to do with Michael’s scent but he wasn’t going to fight it this time. If being with Stonebridge focused him, then that would make him a better fighter and that in turn would improve their chances of getting out of this mess alive, not to mention saving the hostages. That was all that mattered.

Damien had spent the majority of his life cursing his biology, but this was the first time he’d ever considered the possibility that his biology might be an asset, and that was all because of Michael Stonebridge. He didn’t want to think about the implications of that statement – even though the niggling in the back of his mind told him he already knew the answer. At least, his _body_ knew the answer. His rational mind simply rebelled at those realizations. This wasn’t the time to think about those sorts of questions. Hell, there was a decent chance they weren’t going to make it out of the hotel anyway, so all this pondering would be moot. 

“Hey,” he said to the two friendlies. “You two know a way out of here?” 

“Yes,” the bellhop replied, pointing to an exit with his keys. “Downstairs.” 

“Awesome,” Damien said. He looked at Michael. “Hey buddy, I gotta go back upstairs though.” 

“Why?”

“The girl I met in the bar.” 

“You gotta be kidding me,” Stonebridge said. The look of incredulity on his face made Damien want to laugh.

 _If you had any idea, buddy_ , Damien wanted to tell him. _It’s all your fucking fault that I was so distracted_. “It’s not like that,” is what he said instead. And that was true enough. He took a step forward before Michael stopped him. 

“Wait,” Stonebridge said. He glanced at the two friendlies. “We’ve all got to stick together, yeah?” 

Damien halted. “Copy that,” he agreed, leaning back against the wall.

“Colonel?” Stonebridge said into his radio. “I think I know why Latif’s men are in the building. They’re looking for someone named Mahmood.” 

_Now_ Damien wished that he had his own radio transmitter to follow the conversation that Stonebridge was having with 20. As it was, he listened intently to Michael’s half. 

“…Yeah, the gunmen are going through passports trying to locate him….Right….But then the gunmen were intercepted by security. They drew their weapons too quickly and the siege started before they could locate Mahmood….” 

After a long silence, Stonebridge locked eyes with him, his gaze focused and calculating. Damien nearly held his breath, his body already tingling in anticipation. 

“Latif is still inside the hotel.” 

As Damien exhaled, the stairwell door on his left suddenly burst open, as did the door in the floor above them and then they were surrounded by Latif’s men. In frustration, they had no choice but to surrender their weapons. 

One of the friendlies, the man in a business suit and wearing glasses had a gun pointed right at Stonebridge. There was a faint smirk on his face as he said, “You can stop looking.” 

Stonebridge shot Damien a half-exasperated, half-accusing look that made Damien inwardly cringe. God, Michael was going to be so pissed at him.


	3. Chapter 3

Damien stood with his hands behind his head next to Stonebridge as they were disarmed and surrounded by Latif’s men. Stonebridge’s scent had changed, almost imperceptibly, but standing right beside him, Damien noticed the change. He couldn’t quite place it either. It certainly wasn’t fear or panic. (He was starting to wonder if those words were in Stonebridge’s vocabulary.) No, it was more like resolve, a cold steel. Damien found it oddly comforting. 

Latif mercilessly killed the bellhop and took his keys before turning to Stonebridge and pulling the earbud and transmitter out of Michael’s shirt. He crushed the device with his foot. Then he stood in front of Damien, his gun pointed at Scott’s chest. 

“You have been hiding people,” he stated matter-of-factly. 

“You’re out of your mind,” Damien scoffed. 

“What about the woman you met in the bar?” Latif questioned.

“Which woman?” Damien shot back. He could feel Stonebridge turn to look at him. 

“You were there…what? Five minutes?” the other soldier asked, a mixture of amusement and disbelief in his voice. 

“Uh-huh,” Damien confirmed eloquently. Stonebridge shrugged at his response in a way that quietly told Damien that the other man was impressed. 

“With you in the lift,” Latif clarified. 

That was when Damien remembered where he’d seen this man before. He’d wanted to enter the lift but Damien had rudely informed him that the lift – the _elevator_ , he wasn’t British – was going up. This guy’s hotel room was on the same floor as the woman in the black dress. “Oh, her,” he said faintly. “Yeah, I don’t know where she is.” 

“Well, you have hidden her. You will take us to her.” 

“What for?” 

This asshole wasn’t going to take ‘no’ for an answer, as was abundantly clear when one of his goons hit Damien in the gut with the butt of his AK. 

“Fuck you,” Damien spat, earning another hit. He doubled over in pain. 

“You will take us,” Latif repeated. “Now.” 

The second time Damien stood up, he made eye contact with Stonebridge. There was concern in the other soldier’s eyes and he nodded faintly at Damien. 

“Yup,” Damien agreed, in response to Stonebridge’s silent query. “Going up.” He purposely brushed by Michael as he passed the other man, knowing that Stonebridge would fall into step behind him. 

“At least, we found Latif,” Stonebridge eventually said to break the tense silence. “That _is_ Latif, isn’t it?”

Damien cringed, knowing the other man couldn’t see his expression. That was the question he’d been dreading since they’d been captured, the question that came from the half-exasperated, half-accusing look that Stonebridge had shot him as they’d been disarmed. 

“Uh…yeah,” he said at last. 

“What do you mean?” Stonebridge’s voice was all sharp, hard edges. 

It was time to come clean. 

“Porter was really the one that dealt with Latif,” Damien admitted as they rounded another staircase. “When I saw him it was really far away…aaand it was kinda dark,” he added. 

Stonebridge stopped on the next landing and Damien felt compelled to stop and look at him. 

“You never saw Latif, did you?” 

“Not really, no.” 

“You fucking prick.”

Damien inwardly flinched at the disgust that he saw in the other man’s eyes. He hated falling even further in Stonebridge’s esteem. _Why_ he should care so much still bothered him, but Damien could at least admit to himself now that he did. Stonebridge’s opinion _mattered_ and he was gonna have to do a helluva lot of work to repair it…assuming they got out of this mess. 

Luckily, Stonebridge had stopped on the right floor. Damien pointed to the door leading back into the main hallway. “This is the floor,” he told Latif. 

Latif gestured at one of his men to go ahead, and the gunman roughly pushed by Damien. “Move!” Latif barked at the two of them. 

Damien’s mind was in a whirl as the group walked down the carpeted hallway with Michael now on his left. They actually were on the right floor, and he really was taking them to where he’d originally found the woman at the bar. The woman and the kid were nearby. Somehow, he and Stonebridge had to distract the gunmen, get their weapons, make it into the room where the woman and the kid were hiding, and then get away. It was a long shot; a crazy, half-assed plan that relied just as much on luck as it did on skill. When Damien glanced to his left and saw Stonebridge’s focused expression, he knew that skill wasn’t going to be a problem. Suddenly he stopped, and Stonebridge stopped almost as quickly. Damien shot him a _Here we go expression_ to which the other man responded with a _Let’s do this_ shrug. 

They both turned around to face their captors, hands still behind their heads. 

“In there,” Damien said, pointing to a door marked ‘Linen Store.’ 

“You’re sure?” Latif asked, sounding skeptical. 

Damien nodded. The gunman nearest to the linen closet opened the door. A quick walk through revealed an empty closet. 

Damien shrugged at the angry look Latif gave him. “She must’ve left,” he said.

Latif pointed his gun at Damien again. “Where is she?” he asked. 

“You wave that thing around an awful lot,” Damien said blandly. 

“Where?” Latif repeated, his voice rising. 

“Dunno,” Damien said. He looked Latif in the eye. “Kill me, and you’re never gonna find out.” 

Latif merely smirked at Damien’s challenge before shifting the gun in Stonebridge’s direction. “I will kill him,” he said instead. “Ten seconds.” 

Damien felt the briefest flare of panic that quickly turned into angry resolve. _Who did these fuckers think they were?_

“Don’t tell him, Scott,” Stonebridge said flatly. 

“No worries, buddy,” Damien said, impressed at his own flippant tone. “I really don’t know where she is.” 

Stonebridge glanced at him, as if to gauge his reaction. “That’s good,” he said, his tone implying that he didn’t quite believe Scott either. 

Latif was still counting down as the tension among the three of them grew. Damien knew, just as surely as Michael did, that this was moment they would have to make their move. He stepped forward to draw Latif’s attention away from Stonebridge.

“I have no idea what you’re saying,” he said loudly. “Is that English? Is that a five?” He gestured off-handedly at Stonebridge. “You can kill him, but I really don’t know where she is.” 

A loud clatter from the room on their right was the distraction that Damien had been hoping for. In the brief moment that Latif glanced in the direction of the sound, Stonebridge had disarmed him and knocked him to the ground. Damien elbowed the gunman standing nearest to him and took his AK. He immediately began firing as he gestured for Stonebridge to enter the room on their right. He felt a bullet tear into his leg, making him curse, but he limped inside the room with Stonebridge close behind. The woman from the bar and the little girl were already waiting for them. Damien hobbled straight to the girl and picked her up. 

“You shot?” Stonebridge called out to him, even as he was blocking the door with a chair. 

“A ricochet,” Damien replied through gritted teeth. 

“The balcony!” Stonebridge barked. “Move! Move!” 

Damien was already opening the double doors leading to the balcony. 

“Right behind you, Scott!” Stonebridge yelled through the gunfire that was pelting the blocked door. “Move! Move! Move!” 

Damien grimaced as he half-ran, half-limped down the balcony hallway, secure in the knowledge that Stonebridge was covering their exit and that the woman was protected between them. He was aware that by now the Indian army must’ve been camped outside with snipers strategically placed in the buildings surrounding the Royal Lotus Hotel. It was SOP in a siege scenario. His suspicions were confirmed when the gunmen didn’t give chase, most likely being pinned down by the snipers. 

Damien re-entered the hotel through another room at the end of the balcony. He quickly scanned the hallway before darting into another vacated room. By now, the pain shooting up his leg was hard to ignore and he put the little girl down to ease the weight off of his injured leg. The design of this hotel room was very similar to his own and he limped toward the ensuite bathroom and the connecting spacious closet, one hand on the little girl’s back to guide her. Behind him, he could hear Stonebridge locking the main door. 

“Better let me take a look at that, Scott,” came Michael’s voice. 

“I need you to wait for me here,” Damien said to the girl, leaving her outside as he continued to limp into bathroom. “Fuck,” he muttered. Now that the adrenaline from their escape was wearing off, the pain was much more pronounced. 

Stonebridge seemed to materialize behind him. “Down,” the other man ordered, dumping three mini bottles of alcohol onto the floor. 

Damien collapsed onto the nearest flat surface, which just happened to be the rather spacious ledge of the bathtub, and conveniently located where Michael had left alcohol. Damien immediately reached down and grabbed one of the bottles – vodka or gin, judging by its clear color – opened it and gulped its contents in one go. While Stonebridge grabbed additional supplies, Damien removed his belt and used it to tie a tourniquet to stop the blood flow. Then he reached for another bottle – amber-colored this time – just as Stonebridge settled in front of him and proceeded to rip open the area of his cargo pants that the bullet had torn through. The gash that was revealed was nasty, and Damien muttered another “Fuck” when he saw the messy wound. By now, Stonebridge had opened the last remaining bottle and was pouring its contents over the wound. 

“Fuck, what a waste!” Damien groaned, digging into his pocket and pulling out a switchblade for Stonebridge to use. “Tell me I’m gonna dance again, buddy,” he told Stonebridge as he handed him the knife. 

Stonebridge’s expression was grim. “We’ll see,” he said, flipping the knife open. 

Damien was far from squeamish, but watching Stonebridge dig around his leg was unpleasant and _fucking_ painful. What he wouldn’t give for a shot of morphine.

“You find the fucking thing already?” he gritted, after what felt like an interminable minute. 

“Yeah, I found it.” 

If Damien hadn’t been so preoccupied with blocking the pain, he would’ve noticed Stonebridge’s preternatural stillness and the tightness in his voice. 

“It’s lodged against your femoral artery,” Stonebridge said, mercifully stopping his prodding. 

“Shit,” Damien muttered. Could this day get any fucking worse? 

Stonebridge finally looked up at him. “One slip of my knife and you’re going to bleed to death all over this nice, shiny floor,” he stated. 

The Brit was so deadpan in his manner that if Damien hadn’t known any better, he’d have thought that Sergeant Michael Stonebridge had just made a joke in a life or death situation. Which couldn’t possibly be right. Inappropriate jokes were his domain. As it was, Damien realized that his life was literally in Stonebridge’s hands. The amount of blood that he’d lost coupled with Stonebridge’s proximity (his damn scent!) and the intimacy of their closeness (Stonebridge was practically straddling his leg without putting any weight on it) was a heady mixture. Damien hadn’t been this close to the other man since the morning Stonebridge had slammed him against the wall of his flat, and Damien remembered how his body had reacted to that. Was it really so fucked up that he was thinking about sex _now_? 

Or maybe he’d just taken Stonebridge’s words to heart, recognizing that he _could_ bleed to death all over this bathroom, and then he’d never get to know this alpha that had the audacity to walk into his life and turn it upside down in less than 72 hours. At least, that was the rationalization his pain-addled mind came up with when he suddenly leaned forward, grabbed Stonebridge by the front of his shirt and yanked him in for a hard kiss. It could hardly be called a kiss, really. The angle was awkward, the pain flared in his leg, Stonebridge didn’t reciprocate, and there was no tongue involved (much to Damien’s disappointment). Damien supposed it was a miracle that Stonebridge hadn’t thrown him off, but no doubt the other man was thinking of Damien’s wounded leg. (The Brits were considerate like that.) Stonebridge let the kiss run its course even though he didn’t participate or encourage it. When it ended, Damien’s right hand was still fisted in Stonebridge’s blue shirt. He was near enough that he could rest his forehead on Stonebridge’s shoulder, and he closed his eyes and did so. Michael’s scent was soothing and calming. The pain didn’t burn quite so brightly when he focused on that. 

“You done?” Stonebridge asked him quietly, after what felt like a long moment but was really only a few seconds. 

“Yeah,” Damien breathed, lifting his head and sitting back. Pain flared through his body at the motion. 

When he looked at the other man, he could read the puzzled curiosity on Stonebridge’s expression. There was a question in the other man’s eyes that he wasn’t prepared to answer. 

“Should I ask what that was for?” Stonebridge said, returning his attention to Damien’s wound. 

Damien let out a semi-strangled laugh. “Luck?” he offered. The word came out as a hissed grimace when Stonebridge began prodding at his wound again.

* * * * *

Michael had no clue what to make of Damien Scott. Spontaneous, bizarre kiss aside, the man was a complete conundrum. He was an extrovert, a rebel, a mercenary and a womanizer. None of those traits tracked as traditional beta traits. He was also a good soldier, as evidenced by the fact that he was still alive. But he was compassionate too. Michael had seen the way Scott had treated the little girl in the middle of a hostage crisis, and how she’d trusted him. In less than 72 hours, the only conclusion Michael had drawn so far about Damien Scott was that he was a walking contradiction.

Scott had also put his life in Michael’s hands, and Michael was going to do his best not to let the other man bleed out. The pain was obviously getting to him, and Michael knew that he’d have to distract him somehow. While he hardly considered himself to be a conversationalist (Kerry complained that it was impossible to get anything out of him when he was in a ‘mood’), Michael began talking. Perhaps what he _chose_ as the topic surprised him most of all.

“Since these might be your last few moments on earth, you wanna tell me about Iraq?”

Scott shot him another pained look, but Michael thought it had to do more with his question than the very real pain in Scott’s leg. It was a look that said, _You want to talk about that_ now?

“The cradle of civilization?” Scott asked flippantly in return. “Riding in the wheel room –”

“About your dishonorable discharge, you tosser,” Michael cut him off, unwilling to let Scott deflect the question. “I’m assuming you’re a damn good soldier, seeing as you’re not dead and neither are those two girls out there.”

“Oh, wow. Paying me compliments now,” Scott replied, the sarcasm dripping from his voice.

Michael inwardly smiled as he continued to gently push the lodged bullet up. Getting Scott worked up meant that he wasn't so focused on Michael’s actions.

“I guess I just pissed off the wrong chair-born, Ranger,” Scott finally said.

“What do you mean?” Michael asked, never breaking his concentration.

Scott sighed and leaned back a little, giving Michael some room. “One day, I’m heading Delta squadron in search of those WMDs,” he began. “I got tipped off about some chemical weapon convoy in Ramadi. But something didn’t add up, y’know? Next thing I know I was up on charges of possession.”

Michael looked up, puzzled.

“Yeah,” Scott said, answering the unspoken question. “They found two kilos of opium in my locker.”

Michael’s expression morphed into one of surprise. Two kilos was _a lot_. Even if Scott had drugs in his possession (and Michael wouldn’t rule that out), Scott wasn’t stupid. “I guess you got what you deserved,” he said doubtfully, bending down again to finish digging the bullet out.

“The fucking dope wasn’t mine, dickhead,” Scott lashed out.

Michael chuckled. “You telling me you were set up?”

“You’re quick,” Scott retorted, so obviously offended. “I guess somebody wanted me out of Delta,” he winced, when Michael hit something sensitive.

“Yeah,” Michael agreed. “But you don’t know who or why, do you?” He was so close now. The bullet was almost out.

“Well, I’m gonna find out,” Scott said, his voice filled with anger, frustration and pain. “And when I do,” he continued, his voice escalating as Michael lifted the bullet the rest of the way. “I’m gonna hang that _motherfucker’s_ head on a stick!” Scott sagged backwards as Michael passed him the bullet. “My god,” Scott said in shock, looking at the small piece of metal in his hand. Then he looked at Stonebridge, amazed. “Wow,” he said in a semi-daze. “Hey, nice work.” He was grinning a little manically.

Michael didn’t return the grin. They weren’t out of the woods yet. “Belt,” he told Scott. “Slowly.”

Remembering that the tourniquet was still in place, Scott slowly undid the belt tied around his thigh. There was a brief moment of anxiety when he released the pressure, but the blood didn’t gush out of his leg. Scott exhaled in relief.

“Well, look at that,” he said, looking at Stonebridge with that same exuberance.

“Looks like you’ll live,” Michael answered, standing up. “No molesting me,” he added, when he noticed Scott follow his actions with a calculating gaze.

Scott laughed in return, still a little giddy from the blood loss and the relief of being _alive_. “That’s impressive,” he said, in his first open admiration of Michael’s abilities. “I’m sorry about all those bad things I said about you, buddy,” he added, as Michael took off his blue shirt.

Unless he was mistaken, Scott was eyeing him again with that same predatory gaze. There was definitely an attraction there, much more pronounced from Scott’s end, but Michael wasn’t going to deny that he also found the other man oddly compelling. He was just better at hiding it. But then again, Scott didn’t seem like the kind of man to _hide_ anything. He was upfront about what he wanted, and seemed the type to single-mindedly pursue his goals. That had both its advantages and disadvantages in the military.

“What bad things?” Michael asked, ripping his shirt in half to use as a bandage. He kneeled down again to dress Scott’s wound.

“Pretty much everything I say about you behind your back,” Scott admitted with no trace of embarrassment.

Michael purposely tied the bandage around Scott’s wound a little tighter, making Scott wince at the extra pressure. “I can take it,” Michael told him, holding the other man’s gaze for a moment before standing up again.

Certain that Scott was all right, Michael went out to the main room and gave it another quick sweep before going to the little girl and taking her hand. Scott had ambled his way out of the bathroom by the time Michael was gently saying to the girl, “Come here, sweetheart.” He led her back to the closet. “I need you to hide in there for a couple more minutes,” he explained. “Be right outside,” he said encouragingly, before he closed the door. 

Now that the three adults were alone, it was time to get some answers. The woman was anxiously looking between the two of them. She automatically stepped backwards when Scott approached her. Michael hung back and let Scott take the lead. The American knew her better.

“What’s this about?” she asked, nervously. 

“You need to answer some questions,” Scott barked. “Starting with who the fuck you are.”

“My name’s Iman Zubedah,” she quickly said. “I work for a cosmetics company in London.”

Although Zubedah looked like she fit the part, her word wasn’t good enough. They needed proof.

“You have a passport, Iman Zubedah?” Michael asked her.

Her gaze flicked to him. “I think it’s in my hotel room,” she said. Then she shook her head, glancing down at the floor. “I don’t know,” she said in an agitated manner. “I lost it somewhere.”

“That’s convenient,” Michael commented.

“I’m telling you the truth,” she protested.

Michael walked to the door leading to the main room and opened it. “These men out here?” he said, gesturing to the dead bodies of the track-suited terrorists. “They’ve been trying to kill us, and you expect me to believe that’s all because you sell lipstick?”

“I don’t know!” she said, shaking her head vehemently. “They must have me muddled up with someone else!”

“Who’s Mahmood?”

Scott’s question seemed to stun Zubedah into silence. Michael could see the very real fear in her eyes, the scent of it rising from her skin and filling the small space. She was terrified, a sure sign that she knew more than she was letting on.

“What?” she whispered.

Scott had lost all patience. Before Michael could stop him, Scott had grabbed her by the throat and shoved her against the wooden paneling of the closet. His grip on her throat tightened as he said, “Honey, I just got shot in the leg and it’s making me real cranky. You better start telling the truth, right now.”

Frightening the woman to death wasn’t going to do them any good, so Michael stepped forward and tapped Scott twice on the shoulder. It was a signal to tell Scott to back off, but it seemed to have a calming effect on the other man as well, since he gave Michael a quick look of reassurance before he released Zubedah.

In a more sedate voice, Scott repeated his question. “Who’s Mahmood?”

Zubedah seemed to crumble when she heard the name ‘Mahmood’ a second time. She sighed and said, “He’s my husband.”

Scott exchanged another look with Michael, this one saying, _You believe that?_

 _At least, it was more convincing than working for a cosmetics company_ , Michael thought. “Where’s this husband, now?” he asked Zubedah.

Iman Zubedah seemed to gather her resolve as she turned to face him. “Get me out of here,” she bargained. “And I’ll take you to him.”

* * * * *

By the time their small group exited the hotel room, the challenges facing them were daunting. They needed to find a safe exit to get Zubedah and the little girl out of the building, diffuse the IED, save the hostages, and capture or kill Latif. _All in a day’s work for 20_ , Michael thought grimly. He added ‘reestablish contact with 20’ to his mental list, as he glanced at his new partner. Scott was limping, but still moving surprisingly well considering his injury.

“Going left, buddy,” Scott said. 

Michael motioned for Zubedah and the girl to get down. They obeyed, with Zubedah keeping the little girl close. A mobile phone began to ring in the hallway. 

“I got a dead end,” Scott said, clearing the left. 

“I see a body,” Michael replied, scanning right. He held his position and covered Scott as the other man went out to retrieve the ringing mobile. 

Scott got down on his good knee to turn over the body of the woman who was laying face down, the now silent mobile clutched in one of her hands. In the silence of the hallway, Michael could hear the other man’s muttered, “Dammit.” 

“Do you know her?” Michael asked. 

“Yeah,” Scott replied. “It’s the other girl I met in the bar,” Scott explained, reaching over to pry the mobile from her hand. “She went to get me that.” 

Even though Scott was facing away from him, Michael could read the barely perceptible slump in the other man’s shoulders; he could hear the resignation in the other man’s voice. It was another glimpse into the compassionate side of Damien Scott. Despite how briefly he’d known her, he was upset that he’d been unable to save her. Scott hauled himself up and limped back to Michael, passing him the mobile. 

Michael crossed off one item on his list when he got back in touch with 20. Grant’s news was not good. They had less than an hour before the Indian army breached the hotel. Unfortunately for Michael, everything went to shit from there. In hindsight, he wasn’t surprised that Iman Zubedah turned out to be Mahmood. It even seemed fitting, somehow. That was ‘in hindsight.’ At the time, Zubedah had run on them, forcing Scott and himself to separate in order to bring her back. But all that led to was Michael losing both Scott _and_ Zubedah…and the little girl. When Michael gave 20 his update, Grant’s orders were clear.

“Scott is expendable. Mahmood is not.” 

Michael chafed under the command, even as he recognized that Grant was right. Mahmood was the priority. Everything and everyone – save for Latif himself – was secondary. “Latif knows the assault’s coming,” he continued. “He must have an escape route.” 

“Then find it.” 

Michael was already thinking ahead, remembering the exit the bellhop had mentioned in the basement. It was the only logical route for an escape. 

“Copy that,” he replied.

* * * * *

Damien knew he was fucked. He just didn’t realize how fucked until he watched the terrorists raise an active missile warhead and precariously hang it from the ceiling of the lobby. He’d overheard Stonebridge tell 20 that these terrorists would kill everyone in the hotel, and Stonebridge had been right. Now that Damien could survey the lobby, he saw the IED that Michael had referred to, which was now capped by the ballistic missile, the wires all rigged to a main fuse box. A bald track-suited man was holding the detonator, flipping the cap on and off in a carelessly, arrogant manner.

Damien had had to watch helpless, as Latif had given the bald guy last minute instructions – clearly, this was always meant to be a suicide mission for the gunmen remaining in the lobby – and then forcibly dragged Zubedah into an elevator with three bodyguards. Zubedah had silently pleaded for his help, but there was nothing Damien could do. Stonebridge hadn’t been captured with the rest of them, and Damien knew that the other soldier would go after Latif and Zubedah. Those would be the orders he’d receive from 20. That meant that it was up to Damien to diffuse (literally) the situation in the lobby or the whole hotel would go up in flames. He wasn’t worried about Zubedah. Stonebridge would take care of her, and most likely Latif too. But Stonebridge being occupied was another reason why he was fucked.

* * * * *

Michael proceeded to the basement of the hotel. He was on B2 when he heard familiar voices. He ducked behind a tall trolley filled with laundry as he watched Latif, Zubedah and three terrorists pass by.

“Hurry up! Move!” Latif said impatiently. 

“Where are you taking me?” Zubedah asked in return. 

Michael heard the sound of a lock being removed and then the creak of a hinge opening. 

“Somewhere we can talk,” Latif answered, his voice receding as the group resumed walking. 

“And then you’ll kill me,” Zubedah responded, her voice even fainter. 

Michael didn’t hear Latif’s reply, but he knew that Zubedah was right. He checked his ammunition– one bullet in the chamber, two in the cartridge. Four hostiles. Shit. 

With little choice but to follow the group and improvise, Michael moved down the narrow hallway. He stopped when he heard their voices again. It was Latif speaking in a foreign language. Michael was formulating a plan of attack when the mobile he was carrying began to ring. Fuck, 20 had terrible timing. Not expecting to improvise this soon, Michael put the mobile on the floor at the foot of the doorway to the entrance of the room. Sure enough, the gunman sent to investigate the sound was distracted by the mobile. Michael took the opportunity to hit him first, swiftly disarming him. But the gunman was big and fit, and he fought back surprisingly well. Michael ended up killing him with his handgun anyway, before the guy could scramble for his weapon.

The sound of the gunshot caused Latif to panic. By the time Michael darted into the main room, the group had disappeared. He continued his pursuit, dispatching the two remaining gunmen who came charging towards him with his last two remaining bullets. Without breaking his pace, he picked up one of the gunmen’s AK and followed the sound of Zubedah’s cries. 

“I will kill her!” Latif shouted, firing once in Michael’s direction before pointing his gun at Zubedah’s head. 

Michael never hesitated. He had a clean line of sight and with a single bullet, he shot Latif in the head. Zubedah screamed. By the time Michael reached her, she was still trembling, unable to recover from the shock of Latif’s death, and how close she had come to her own. 

Michael covered the exit that Latif had been headed towards. It was a dark path that led upwards to the street level. So far, there was no movement from above. 

“Are you okay?” he asked Zubedah, eyes never leaving the exit. When she didn’t answer, he repeated the question. Still no response. When Michael was fairly certain that the exit was clear, he looked at her, one hand gently brushing the hair out of her face. “You all right?” he asked a third time. She still couldn’t make eye contact. Finally, Michael grasped her gently by the chin so he could look into her eyes. “You all right?” he said again. 

Zubedah took a deep breath, finally able to calm herself and nodded. Michael dropped his hand onto her shoulder to steady her. 

“I know you’ve been through a lot,” he told her. “But I need you to come with me.” 

For a moment, Michael saw the fear creep back into her eyes, but she nodded. She trusted him, and for that he was grateful. “Come on,” he said, grabbing her hand. They had to get back to the lobby. Scott needed his help.

* * * * *

Damien’s plan went something like this: Get the kid out of the way by stashing her in the Ladies Room. Knock out the gunmen who would be sent to guard them. Charge the bald guy holding the detonator. Knock the detonator out of his hand. Yank the wires from the fuse box. Pray that the Indian army would do the rest. Try not to die.

As far as plans went, Damien had actually had much worse. And this plan? This plan worked right up until the moment the super-dedicated bald dude cut the wire holding the missile head. Damien had lunged for the wire, but it had been too late. The ‘try not to die’ part of his plan had always been a weak point, and as he fell to the floor his last thought was he hoped that Stonebridge had gotten Zubedah out of the building, that both of them were safe. 

It was a silly thought. 

Damien should’ve guessed that Stonebridge wouldn’t play it safe. The Brit had a fucking hero complex. He was a goddamn white knight, and like something out of a crazy action movie, he appeared out of nowhere and made the most spectacular sliding catch that Damien had ever seen. When it was done, Stonebridge was cradling the missile in his arms and Damien could sigh in relief. 

“Fuck me,” he said in disbelief. “Nice catch, buddy,” he called over to Stonebridge. “Nice catch.”

But Damien didn’t believe in happily ever afters, and his life was no fairytale. If it were, then the end of the hotel siege would’ve also been the end of Latif and they all could’ve moved on. But Latif had played them all for fools, “out-maneuvered” them as Grant had called it. That’s why the Indian police had driven Grant, Stonebridge and himself to a dusty road outside the city limits where the army jeep that had been transporting Zubedah had been abandoned, the driver and one of the Indian soldiers both found shot dead in the vehicle. Zubedah was lying dead beside the jeep. Grant’s quiet fury had ensured that everyone kept a safe distance from her. She had been the first to leave the scene of the crime. After exchanging a muted look with Stonebridge, Damien had left as well.

* * * * *

Michael awoke with a start, images of Porter’s execution still flashing through his mind. Strangely, his first conscious thought was of Damien Scott and that bizarre, desperate kiss at the Lotus Hotel, when Scott thought he might die. There was some connection between Scott and Porter that he was missing, something vital that he couldn’t put his finger on. He sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and stretched. A moment later, warm arms enveloped him and a soft body pressed against his.

“You going somewhere?” Kate murmured against his skin. 

“Yeah.” 

“Why? We still have time.” Her voice was soft, still sleepy and sated from sex. 

Michael felt something twist in his gut at her words. This was wrong. Not just because he was married, there was something else gnawing at him. Something new. His thoughts flicked back to Porter and Scott, but they lingered on Scott. He was supposed to meet the other man in 30 minutes.

“We can’t do this anymore,” he told her. 

Abruptly, Kate pulled away from him. “Michael,” she said, all the sleep gone from her voice. “We’ve talked about this.” 

“I know,” he said. “Kerry and I are –” He couldn’t finish his sentence. It was hypocritical to use his wife as an excuse on his mistress. Luckily, Kate didn’t seem to notice since she spoke right over him. 

“You were kids when you met,” Kate rationalized. “You didn’t even know who you were. You said so yourself.”

It was true, but Michael had made his decision long ago. There was a time when he’d loved Kerry deeply. He loved her still, although things had changed between them. Love was no longer a priority once you were mated, and he was mated to Kerry for life. Only death or truly extraordinary circumstances would part them now. 

“It doesn’t change anything,” he said, standing up and reaching for his trousers. He put them on. That statement was true too. 

Kate wouldn’t give up. “I love you,” she said. 

“Stop.” 

“You love me.” 

“Stop.” Finally, Michael turned around and looked at her. “We both need to just stop.” 

Kate's expression had gone from soft to challenging. Being rejected like this was bringing the alpha in her to the fore. “Sure you can?” she said, her voice now daring him. 

Michael ignored the provocation and grabbed his bag. 

“Michael,” Kate called out, but he’d already left the room.

* * * * *

Damien stubbed the butt of his cigarette once he saw Michael’s familiar form cross the square to meet him. The alpha was looking especially attractive in a black shirt, khaki cargo pants and aviator shades. The long cut across his left cheek had been stitched up, the only piece of evidence that he’d been involved in the Delhi siege less than 24 hours ago. Damien stood up, unable to suppress the grin on his face.

“Hey, buddy,” he greeted.

Damien’s grin was wiped off his face the moment Michael walked past him and placed his bag at the foot of the monument that Damien had been using as a bench. Michael reeked. It was a familiar scent, but it wasn’t just the scent that had Damien off guard, it was everything else associated with that scent. Michael smelled of sex and Kate Marshall, and it was evident to Damien that he’d just come from a tryst with the Captain. Damien was boggled by the thought. 

Part of him couldn’t get over the shock. He already thought of Stonebridge as such a goddamn white knight. Infidelity would never have occurred to Damien. It didn’t fit his mental picture. But another part of him, a deep dark part of him that he wasn’t willing to acknowledge yet, was secretly thrilled. Apparently, not everything was smooth sailing at Casa Stonebridge. And if Kate Marshall could get Michael into bed…

“What’re we doing back here?” Damien asked, when Michael had removed his shades and was standing in front of him. He was doing his best to ignore Kate’s scent that had seeped into Michael’s skin. “Wanted to rub salt in the wound?” 

“Wanted to talk to you outside the crib.” 

“What about?” 

“John Porter.”

Damien tensed. It was an involuntary reaction whenever Stonebridge mentioned the other soldier. Sooner or later (and Damien hoped it was much later), Stonebridge was going to figure out what happened between Porter and Damien almost a decade ago. Damien was certain that Porter hadn’t told anyone, and Damien protected his secrets fiercely. There was really no reason to think that Stonebridge would be suspicious, except that Damien had a niggling feeling about the other man, a feeling that seemed to be confirmed by the direction of this conversation. 

Michael was talking about the coded message again, the one that Porter had specifically sent to Damien. “Porter wanted you inside the Section, and I’ll be fucked if I know why,” he finished off. 

“Like I told you on the plane, buddy,” Damien said, taking a step towards him, nostrils flaring as Kate’s scent ghosted over him. “You know why.”

He could see the conflict playing out on Michael’s face. Michael knew. Of course, he did. He just couldn’t admit it to himself. _Pot kettle black_ , Damien thought. There was a lot about Michael Stonebridge that Damien couldn’t admit to himself either. 

“Porter didn’t trust 20,” Stonebridge said at last. 

“Got it in one, buddy.” 

“But that’s insane!” Michael burst out. “I can’t believe that.”

“C’mon,” Damien said, before launching into some pretty compelling evidence like the fact that Michael and Kate had been so close to Porter in Lahore, yet Porter had been moved just before 20 arrived. “Whoever sold John out has eyes in Section 20,” Damien pushed. “Or someone connected to Section 20. Either way it works out to the same thing.” 

Stonebridge had begun angrily pacing while Damien talked. It was painful watching the other man, knowing that Stonebridge’s orderly world, the fucking code that he believed in, was collapsing around him. Stonebridge finally stopped with his back to Damien.

“Fuck!” he said in frustration. There was a weighted pause. “Latif knew John’s name.” 

“You think John would’ve given that up?” Damien asked quietly.

“No,” Stonebridge agreed, his voice hard. “But there’s something more.” He rounded on Damien, and Damien again felt the rush of anticipation at having Stonebridge’s intense focus solely on him. It was hard to ignore how easily this alpha captivated him. 

“You didn’t beg Grant for a job just to get back to soldiering, did you?” 

Damien wouldn’t have been able to lie even if he’d wanted to. It was time to lay his cards on the table if he wanted Stonebridge as an ally. And he _did_ want Stonebridge as an ally.

“Zubedah told me about a plot to plant WMDs in Iraq,” he revealed. “John knew whoever set him up. The WMDs. Latif. Mahmood. Project Dawn. The whole fucking conspiracy somehow connects back to what happened to me in Iraq.” 

Damien took a deep breath, his anger getting the best of him as he’d spoken. This was the first real lead he’d had since being dishonorably discharged. There was no way in hell he was going to let it go. When he looked at Michael again, the alpha had calmed down as Damien had been worked up. Stonebridge was eyeing him now with his own predatory gaze, apparently having reached some kind of decision. 

“You don’t want to prove all this just to end with a bullet in the brain, do you?” he asked. 

Damien blew out a breath. “Not really. No,” he admitted. 

“Sounds like you need someone to watch your back, mate.”

Damien managed a small smile. Against all odds, he’d managed to get Stonebridge to see his side. “So do you, buddy. So do you,” he agreed. Unable to help himself, he patted Stonebridge on the arm. “C’mon,” he said. “I owe you that drink.” 

Stonebridge picked up his bag and fell into step beside Damien. For the first time in a very long time, Damien felt centered and purposeful. There was still a lot of shit to sort out, a lot of secrets that were buried, but Damien knew without a doubt that this was where he belonged.

 

**Fin.**

**Author's Note:**

>  _Strike Back_ belongs to Sky 1 and Cinemax. No infringement is intended; no profit is being made.


End file.
